I grew up in a border town in the Okanagan valley just North of Washington state called Osoyoos. One big advantage of living in a border town was that you could go down into the US for cheap groceries and gas. We used to wear our old shoes down, buy a new pair and just throw the old ones out in the parking lot. As long as you didn’t buy booze or smokes you usually didn’t have to pay duty.
You did need to show receipts though when you came back into Canada. The agent would scan the list and as long as none of the prohibited items were on it, they would usually wave you through. Occasionally they would make you come in and pay but that wasn’t very often and since it was a small town they knew who the trouble makers were.
The border agents in general do not have a sense of humour. In fact we used to joke that in their interview process someone would crack a joke and if you laughed they would show you the door. We used to warn visitors and guests from elsewhere that there were a few rules you needed to follow for a successful encounter:
- Roll down your window all the way
- Turn off the radio/music
- Don’t chew anything
- Answer their questions quickly and clearly.
Basically don’t fuck around. The police can only detain you for 24 hours before they need to charge you with a crime. Not so for border agents. They have almost limitless power to fuck your day up. They can literally tear your vehicle apart looking for narcotics and then wish you good day. I don’t think they even need to help you put it back together. Luckily the questions are usually the same; Where are you from? How long have you been in the US? Did you buy anything?
So one time in the late spring when I was about thirteen years old I went down with my mother to pick up groceries. I remember we had this burgundy Dodge caravan with plush velvety seats and it was warm enough to keep the window down. As a typical teen I have my feet on the dashboard and my arm hanging out the window.
We loaded the van with the groceries at Prince’s (the grocery store in Oroville) and headed back for the 15 minute drive to our house. My mother had handed me the receipt from the bag for me to hold so that when we arrived at the border I could hand it to her quickly.
As we drove along I was absent-mindedly rolling the receipt up into a tube and unrolling it. Eventually I rolled it up started blowing though it and then ended up chewing it. First chewing on the end, then flipping it around in my mouth with my tongue. And finally just chewing on the whole thing.
By the time we joined the line to enter Canada again (there was always a line to enter Canada) I had basically mauled this receipt into an unreadable mash. Now picture this, the border agent is a stern looking young man with a short crisp haircut; probably ex-military. No signs of humour or pleasantries, just the look of someone who has a tedious but important task. A terse conversation with my mom followed.
“Where are you from?”
“Osoyoos.”
“How long were you gone for?”
“Maybe an hour.”
“Purpose of your trip?”
“Buying groceries”
“Receipt?”
At this point my mother, without turning puts her hand out expecting me to hand her the receipt. When it isn’t immediately deposited in her hand she turns to see the blood draining from my face as I realize I have just chewed the receipt. Slowly I pull the wet, masticated paper from my mouth and try to unroll it. Most of the ink is splotchy at this point although if you squinted you could probably make some of it out. She looked at me with a mix of disappointment and concern.
With a deep sigh, she calmly takes the receipt and turns to the agent as if to hand it to him. He just looks at me with amusement as I try to apologize and explain at the same time. He smiles and waves us through. I think he could see we weren’t exactly master smugglers or anything. Safe on the other side and back in Canada we both stop holding our breaths and laugh. Lesson learned on both our parts.